another failing condition perched on a fire hydrant, stolen wastes unnecessary bleeding, awake - she pastes fake, sympathy orange spiders. Mary and the boys own nothing of value. they take it hard out on wet streets, following their ownership circles vacantly to vacancies they agree to adore. pig arteries of unnamed cities, the face value of a trick of the mind, frothy hard-ons, boiled eggs, sleepy stain people swearing they'll never do it again and again. sometimes a knish between the hard eyed failing truth, sometimes a million miles of bricks, sometimes ejaculating in showers while she waits to go out. the foreign money blames me. the smart money tearing a hole in a gaping man, alone on failure and aspirin - a black eye a day with cringing toilets in an ear full of fog, velvet banquets of an impossibly distant eroticism. a stereotype of fantasy between her legs and a shame drug across oceans of sand, and the same old days awake. a stranger now resides between legs and deep inside that forgotten fun, a broken bowl of milk a kitten forced to mend, a passenger on doomed memorization of a warmth. get up scrape. another. get up scrape. another. another condition sworn to be upheld or blown off.